At half-past twelve I would finally make up my mind to enter that house which, like an immense Christmas stocking, seemed ready to bestow upon me supernatural delights. (The French name “Noël” was, by the way, unknown to Mme. Swann and Gilberte, who had substituted for it the English “Christmas,” and would speak of nothing but “Christmas pudding,” what people had given them as “Christmas presents” and of going away⁠—the thought of which maddened me with grief⁠—“for Christmas.” At home even, I should have thought it degrading to use the word “Noël,” and always said “Christmas,” which my father considered extremely silly.)